


Advent XX

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Dark, Ex-pat, Gen, Remorse, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This one is dark and sad, but also happy and fierce. Spy-Mary and Spy-Anthea and Spy-Mycroft, and a bit of dark reality and the complex conflicts of love and loyalty and duty and opposed ideals.</p><p>It ends, well...maybe not upbeat, but more than a bit redemptive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent XX

“Where are Greg and Mycroft?” Mary murmured in Anthea’s ear, as John jigged little Em around the room, making her shiny new crown of Christmas ribbons and bows bounce and shine.

Anthea frowned, and drew a phone from her pocket, quickly dialing someone and murmuring. She looked back up at Mary. “Other wing. Not sure beyond that. Safe. Covered.” She flashed a smile. “Probably getting in a bit of a holiday snog. I would if it were me. Today’s only going to get crazier.”

Mary looked around. “Yeah. No kidding. So this is how the other half lives?”

Anthea shrugged. “If it helps, Mr. Holmes generally lives pretty simple, even if the estate is something.”

“Still,” Mary said.

She’d grown up in places she could no longer mention, surrounded by duty and death and honor more than wealth and luxury and the high life. The fantasy weekend of Mycroft’s Christmas was beautiful—but beginning to wear on her.

“I think I’m going to go down and see how they’re doing in the kitchen,” she said. “See if there’s more gingerbread.”

Anthea nodded. “Mind if I come?”

“You mean do I mind if you keep watch over me?”

Anthea shrugged. “You’re a wild card. Sorry.”

Mary nodded. “Sure, then. Gingerbread and maybe coffee instead of endless vats of tea.”

“There’s hot chocolate.”

Yes, Mary thought, but she was longing for a good old American cup of joe….

Mary told John where she was going, and the two women slipped away, ghosts out of place in the high halls and epic grandeur of Holmescroft.

“He says it’s just a small estate,” Mary said. “It’s huge.”

“Only ten proper bedrooms,” Anthea said. “And back in the day I suppose they’d have packed in twice as many in the attics and cellars for ‘the help.’” Her voice was tart and amused. “Mr. Holmes keeps a cook and brings in a cleaning team every week. And a landscape service.”

“Stripped down,” Mary said.

“Better than to let it go to ruin.”

“Why haven’t they given the place over to the National Trust long since?”

Anthea shrugged. “It’s useful, sometimes. Mr. Holmes has hosted quite a number of very hush-hush meetings, conferences, and summits here. It’s easy to secure—the more because it’s still mostly private.”

“Mostly?”

Anthea shrugged. “National Trust got their teeth in during Mrs. Holmes’ tenure.”

“You don’t like Mummy?”

Anthea wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like…” She shrugged again. “Mr. Holmes, now—he’s another matter. He understands.”

“Understands?”

Anthea nodded. “He’s a good man,” she said. “Even if he is all swank.”

“You didn’t grow up like this?”

“Good God, no. Who does?”

“Holmeses?”

“Not even them. ‘Mummy Dearest’ got them out. I suppose I should give her that much credit. She picked a house, not a mausoleum.”

“Literally,” Mary thought, with a shiver, thinking of the lost baby.

“People do get over it, you know,” Anthea growled. “Mummy’s like Sherlock. She likes being in the center of things.”

“You don’t seem to dislike Sherlock as much…”

“Sherlock’s willing to risk his arse, even if he is a prat. And…” She shrugged, and gave a rueful smile. “I like the boss. For him, I’d be happy to line Sherlock up against the wall, too.”

The kitchens were warm and bright and busy…but not the frenzied kind of busy Mary remembered from days as a teen, working in restaurant chains to pay her way in college. Mycroft had hired enough people to ensure the crew could at least enjoy Christmas, even if they had to work. The rules appeared fairly loose, too: there was a sweeping, majestic pan of gingerbread out, already cut in squares, and one of the crew grabbed a hefty block as he shot past on his way to stir a pot.

“What’s dinner going to be?”

“Enough food to feed a small nation,” Anthea said. “Crown rib roast with sausage stuffing, and fresh ham, and a turkey because it’s Christmas. Sage dressing. Mashed potatoes. Vats of gravy—all sorts. Yorkshire puddings. Sweet and sour red cabbage. Roasted beetroot. Glazed carrots. By the time we get to afters you’ll be lucky to have room for a single raisin from the plum pudding.” She shook her head. “We were lucky growing up to get a roast and the pudding after.”

Mary nodded. “We weren’t cold and stony broke. But…a turkey. Dressing—cornbread dressing. I’d kill for cornbread dressing.” She closed her eyes, feeling tears prickle. “Dad would read Luke. I can still say bits. ‘And it came to pass in the days of Caesar Augustus, there went out a decree that all the world would be taxed.’”

“Of course there did,” Anthea snipped. “Wouldn’t you know it all started with a government tax initiative?”

“Not much on Christmas spirit?”

“Not much on Christian,” Anthea growled. “More a ‘Rebel Jesus’ heathen, me. But the boss loves is, doesn’t he?”

Mary nodded, and grabbed her own block of gingerbread, and flagged down a girl in white kitchen scrubs with enough piercings and ink to pass as Boudicca: woad and miles of celtic and Viking knots, and even a brass torque with green glass knobs.

“Got any coffee?” she asked. “Plain, strong?”

The girl grinned and nodded, darting off and returning with a mug. “Anything else, mum?”

She had a South London accent you could stand a spoon in. Mary grinned back at her. “No.” She took a long pull and closed her eyes in bliss. “Bloody wonderful. Sometimes I get so tired of tea…”

Anthea, who was humming quietly and picking off bits of gingerbread, shot Mary a look that screamed a slient, “Yank.” Mary found it welcome, to her surprise. So few knew who she was—who she’d been. Anthea’s knowledge felt like an anchor in a storm of British-ness.

The kitchen girl was studying Anthea, a slight frown between her fair brows. “Oi—I know that one. I can sing the top if you can carry the melody.”

One of Anthea’s brows flicked up, and her face went still and stony. Then, with a sudden chuckle she said, “Yeah-sure. Why not?” She gathered herself, and, to Mary’s amazement, a growling, smoky, torch singer’s alto rumbled rolled out of her. Her eyes, narrow and fierce, sparked a challenge to the little blonde.

_The streets are filled with laughter and light_

_And the music of the season_

_And the merchants’ windows are all bright_

_With the faces of the children_

_And the families hurrying to their homes_

_As the sky darkens and freezes_

_Will be gathering around the hearths and tables_

_Giving thanks for all God’s graces…._

_And the birth of the rebel, Jesus._

The blonde had lit up like a Christmas candle, and Anthea was barely a line in when a wild, flutelike soprano started weaving filigrees around the supporting line—crazy Celtic ornamentation skirling like silver bagpipes, haunting and untamed.

The kitchen came to a stop. The voices blended in eerie perfection, their contrast transmuting two voices that might otherwise have seemed flawed to pure vocal gold. Anthea’s deep, hungry alto, gritty and dark, wasn’t suited to much other than torch songs and blues, and the little blonde’s was almost too pure and shrill for ordinary singing, but together they created something magical.

And, together, they shared a song that was sweetness and rage and hope and resistance.

_They’ve filled their churches with their pride and gold_

_As their faith in him increases_

_But they’ve turned the nature that I worshipped in_

_From a temple to a robbers den…_

_In the words of the rebel, Jesus._

One of the other kitchen helpers, a tall, dark girl with her own set of ink and piercings, raised a fist and gave a high, ululating cry, adding, “Go-Pagan, girl!”

Some of the helpers laughed. Some looked embarrassed. Some scowled.

Mary, riveted, listened.

There was fury in the beauty, and generousity battling the warrior anger…

God. She hadn’t felt that kind of mixed up blend of betrayal and rage since…

She swallowed. Hard. She turned away, unable to look. The voices followed, singing anger at a world where the rich grew richer and the poor grew poorer, and whoever tried to stand against it risked death. A song that remembered the baby who was born on Christmas, died on Black Friday, for fighting the smug and the certain and the respectable norms. Her fingers clenched into fists and her gorge rose.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She left, abandoning cup and gingerbread and all, as the song fell apart behind her, and she heard Anthea bark something in her “I’m on the phone” voice.

She fled.

It was such a big house, she thought. She should have been able to get lost in it. Never come out again. Instead she was trained. She never lost her bearings. She never forgot where things were. She ended up part-way up the stairway at the front of the house, on a half-landing, having taken a twisting, circuitous path through the various levels and corridors, moving from the back of the house forward.

She curled on the window seat, arms around her knees, and pushed her face into the folds of her Hollywood-glam robe. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t cry. She wondered when she’d lost her tears.

Which shooting had they assigned her that wasn’t really needed? Which was the first betrayal? Which prisoner they’d sent her to bring in had been innocent—a false lead, a mistaken identity, a cynical play for leverage over someone else? Which teenager had been the first tortured? Which assassination the most corrupt?

When had her nation betrayed her? When had she betrayed her nation? She could not for the life of her find a margin, a clear line, a moment when she’d known. Once she had thought herself a servant of her nation’s need. Then, one day, she’d realized she was a slave to its fears. And then she’d run…

“Mary?”

She ignored the too-posh voice of the man she’d been treating as a complete stranger for years. She hunched tighter, as though she could pretend him away.

“Ann?”

“I’m not Ann anymore,” she husked.

He sat beside her on the bench of the window seat, and looked out over the miles of snow.

“This used to be my favorite place in the house,” he said, softly. “Halfway up the stairs.”

“It isn’t really anywhere,” she said, and looked up, wiping her eyes with the cuff of her robe.

“Here,” he said. “I have a handkerchief.”

“Of course you have a handkerchief,” she said, and took it to blow her nose. “Sorry. I—it just hit me. Do we always betray the dream?”

He didn’t ask what she meant. His eyes were sad.

“You were, what? Methodist growing up?”

She nodded.

He considered. Then, in a voice that would never win him a place on Broadway, he sang for her.

_Then in despair I bowed my head._

_“There is no peace on Earth, I said,_

_For hate is strong and mocks the song_

_Of ‘Peace on Earth, good will toward men.’”_

He stopped, and looked at her.

Mycroft Holmes, spymaster supreme. A man who had ordered deaths. A man who would do so again.

“Do you know how it ends?” he asked.

She nodded, and when he started, she joined him, their voices growing stronger as they raged their conviction back at despair.

_Then rang the bells, more loud and deep,_

_“God is not dead nor does he sleep!_

_The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,_

_And peace on Earth, good will toward men!”_

“It is what it is, my dear,” he said, softly. “And what is is, is what we ourselves make it. As depressing as that can be, it  offers a bit of hope: what we choose matters. You chose correctly.”

She nodded, and blew her nose again. “Are they all over the house looking for me?”

“No. Anthea called me. She and I and the other security team members thought we’d see if we could find you first, before we worried John.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my dear.” He smiled—the brittle little smile she’d come to understand was shyness hiding behind formality. “Truly, you are.”

She nodded, and together they went down to the foyer, where Anthea stood with her arms crossed, softly singing to herself.

_In this life of hardship and of earthly toil_

_We have need for anything that frees us._

_So I bid you pleasure and I bid you cheer_

_From a heathen and a pagan_

_On the side of the rebel, Jesus._

 

 **Nota Bene:** The first song is "Rebel Jesus," by Jackson Browne. You can listen to his own version [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PEC7d5jbAbo), or the one I prefer, by the Chieftains, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rD-lZJnApl4). The second, "I Heard the Bells," has a tragic history, having been written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in the winter of 1963, to commemorate his first Christmas after the death of his son in the Civil War that fall, and his wife in a fire prior to that. I have always loved the pure refusal to let darkness prevail in that song. I like it better added to Mycroft's quiet conviction that good will only triumph if good people choose to fight...including fighting against their own side when it turns all darkside. There's a nice version [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lyu_bA0mqEw), by Belafonte--but there are a number of good ones around. And [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PruWmHhsW4Q) is another, fiercer version to a different melody. Given my preferences I'd ahve the first melody--and the intensity of the second's delivery.


End file.
